


Object of Desire

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Beauty - Freeform, Demons, Friendship, Gen, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-12
Updated: 2004-04-12
Packaged: 2019-08-09 03:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crowley tells Aziraphale what life will be like after Heaven wins:"Like eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. NoDaily Telegraphcrossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. No" -- Crowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphale's barrel of interests -- "Regency silver snuffboxes . . ."(Ace edition, p. 32)





	Object of Desire

Aziraphale turned the snuffbox over and over in his hand, wondering if what he was feeling was covetousness. _Nonsense_ , he thought, _I just need something I can easily carry with me. It's perfectly practical._ He squashed down the thought that snuff could be carried in a twist of paper, or that the silversmith had brought out cheaper boxes for him to look at, boxes that were not covered with delicate designs of false gods. The thought that snuff was really a rather unpleasant human habit to have acquired was smothered at birth. The box went very well with the silver design on the top of his cane.

'I'll take it,' he said, taking out his purse.

Crowley, of course, had a damned inconvenient way of sniffing out things that Aziraphale thought should really be left well enough alone. Although Aziraphale did have to admit that perhaps gloating over his new purchase in Crowley's company was not the best idea. The little silver box was plucked from his fingers and a generous amount of his rather expensive snuff vanished up Crowley's nose.

'Filthy habit,' Crowley said cheerfully, sneezing into a snow-white and pristine handkerchief that remained just as pristine going back into his pocket as it had when it was produced. He fiddled with the little box idly, running a finger over the design. 'Who's the kid with the chicken?' he asked.

'I believe it's an eagle,' Aziraphale said, holding out his hand. 'Could I _please_ have some of my own snuff?'

Crowley took a closer look and smiled slyly at Aziraphale.

'It's Ganymede and Zeus. Pagan gods _and_ pederasty, dear me. You angels -'

'It's just a design,' Aziraphale muttered, snatching it back.

Crowley laughed in an ill-bred manner.

Every time they met thereafter Crowley made a point of asking for snuff and giggling at the design on the box. Aziraphale made a point of keeping an innocently bemused expression on his face and not going even the slightest bit pink. Then Crowley vanished, claiming he felt a bit sleepy, and Aziraphale didn't see him for the best part of a century. Snuff gradually went out of fashion, and Aziraphale found that he really rather enjoyed sucking on a nice fat cigar, as the new fashion was. He also decided never to share that realisation with Crowley. The demon had the most annoying way of interpreting every little innocent statement in the most irritating manner. When Crowley finally reappeared, looking rested and evil, Aziraphale forestalled any dubious statements by producing a cigar case.

'No more Chicken-Boy?' Crowley asked. 'What's on _this_ , then?'

Aziraphale sat back smugly. The case was quite plain.

As the twentieth century approached and then wore on, Aziraphale found himself missing the feel of his little snuffbox in his pocket. It sat in a drawer in one of the upstairs rooms over the shop he'd bought in London. One day he dug it out and shone it up, as bright as it had been when new, and put it on a shelf so that he could at least see it easily. After a month or two he found himself thinking it looked rather lonely and wandered into antique shops, looking for others of its kind to keep it company. Like so many thoughts, he kept this strictly from Crowley. It was the kind of thing that would have the demon looking at him strangely. As he paid out yet another exorbitant amount of money for a small exquisite scrap of silver he wished he'd just bought more in the eighteenth century. They hadn't been cheap then, either, but at least you hadn't had to scour the city to find someone who sold them. Still, they _did_ look very pretty arranged behind his own old box.

Then, as the twentieth century drew to its close Crowley showed up, looking uncharacteristically serious and told him the world was ending. Aziraphale invited him to lunch and poo-pooed his concerns. Until Crowley came clean and admitted he'd taken delivery of the Anti-Christ the previous evening. _That_ put a whole different complexion on the matter, and put Aziraphale off his lunch. He meekly followed Crowley off to St James' Park and gloomily fed the ducks.

'We should do something,' Crowley said.

'Dig out our heavenly - and infernal, of course - raiment, you mean?' Aziraphale said, frowning as a duck suddenly capsized and went down, not without a struggle. 'Do you _have_ to do that?'

'Sorry. No, we should stop it, I mean.'

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head, then stood stock still as Crowley began to list out all the things that made an angel's life worth living, all the things that would be burned away in the coming conflict. He closed his eyes at the thought of an eternity without human music, human food, human kindness and skill and art. An eternity without _humans_.

'No Regency silver snuffboxes either,' Crowley concluded, a shade desperately. 'No more Chicken-Boy.'

'It's an eagle,' Aziraphale said out of long-ingrained habit. Then, unwillingly, 'Our victory will make life better.'

'Not for _us_ ,' Crowley said, and waved an arm at the city. 'Not for _them_.'

Aziraphale looked at him bleakly. No one in Heaven would spend effort making little shiny boxes with pretty designs, or would understand the human impulse to make things beautiful as well as useful. Crowley was looking at him hopefully, like he understood him, like he needed his help.

'I'm willing to discuss this further,' Aziraphale said, and something relaxed in Crowley's tense face.

'Let's have a drink,' he said, and led Aziraphale off to the Bentley. Sliding into the driver's seat he grinned and said, 'It really does look more like a chicken, you know.'

'Well, it's _my_ chicken,' Aziraphale said. 'Let's go.'

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley tells Aziraphale what life will be like after Heaven wins:
> 
> _"Like eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No_ Daily Telegraph _crossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. No" -- Crowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphale's barrel of interests -- "Regency silver snuffboxes . . ."_
> 
> (Ace edition, p. 32)


End file.
